The Sorcerer (41 page)

Galaeron supposed that most of those enemies were still phaerimm, but the last time the meteors had fallen, he had seen them strike beholders and illithids, even a bewildered

bugbear who looked more interested in fleeing the city than conquering it. Once the mythal might have shown mercy on a hapless mind-slave as much a victim of the phaerimm as Evereska’s own citizens, but no longer. The renewed mythal concerned itself only with who was an enemy to the city and who was a friend, and it destroyed enemies and protected friends.

Considering the stripes of shadow that remained behind every time a meteor descended, Galaeron half expected the next golden ball to land on him, but the mythal had finished with the courtyard surrounding Hanali’s statue, and even with the hill below. No attacks had fallen anywhere near the hill since the second wave, when its deadly barrage had broken the counterattack on the captured entrenchment and sent the phaerimm mind-slaves fleeing for the far corners of the city. With reinforcements pouring up the hill by the dozens, victory was only a matter of waiting and consolidating, of carefully expanding the areas of elf control each time the mythal struck.

Galaeron should probably have felt proud, but in truth he was simply restless. After the mythal’s initial strike, Laeral Silverhand had attended to his stomach wound, and finding no phaerimm egg planted inside, pronounced him likely to survive but in need of rest. Storm had trickled a healing potion down his throat, then tied him down to a tree root to wait for the phaerimm’s paralysis poison to wear off, and there he had been stuck, wondering what had become of Vala and Aris, of Keya and her Vaasan friends, and most of all, what had happened between Takari and Kuhl and their sword.

It was another quarter hour before Galaeron could move his fingers, and a quarter hour after that before he had control enough to untie Storm’s torturous knots. By the time he succeeded, Lord Duirsar was holding a meeting with the Chosen, the commanders of the city’s surviving companies, Aris, and anyone else likely to play an important part in the events to come.

Galaeron coiled the rope and hung it on his belt, then straightened his armor and started across the courtyard to join the others. Storm’s healing potion had proven remarkably effective. Though he had felt the phaerimm’s tall barb sink deep, the wound caused him little discomfort as he walked, and when he looked down, he was surprised to find the puncture already closed.

As Galaeron approached, his sister Keya was the first to notice. Without excusing herself from the circle kneeling in front of Lord Duirsar, and apparently not caring that she was bringing the meeting to a dead stop, she leaped to her feet and rushed across to him with her arms spread wide.

“Brother!”

Keya threw herself into Galaeron so hard that he stumbled back and would have fallen, had she not closed her arms around his shoulders and caught him.

“You’re well?” she asked.

“Well enough,” Galaeron laughed. He pried himself loose and held her at arm’s length. “And you?”

“Not a scratch.”

Keya did a twirl to demonstrate, though she was so crusted in dirt and blood that it was barely possible to tell she was female.

“I’ll take your word for it. And what of the others?”

“We lost Kuhl,” said Vala, coming to join them. She smiled grimly. “Everyone else made it.”

“I’m sorry for Kuhl’s loss.” Galaeron took her hands, then said quietly, “And glad to see you still here.”

“Then how about showing it?”

Vala kissed him deep and hard, drawing a hearty and somewhat astonished laugh from the others in the crowd. She held the kiss just long enough to be scandalous, then released him and nodded over her shoulder at Takari.

“And showing it not just to me,” Vala said.

Not quite sure what to make of Vala’s remark or Takari’s unaccustomed meekness, Galaeron went to Takari. He was

hardly surprised to find Kuhl’s darksword in her scabbard, but when he looked into her eyes, the shadow was gone. There was sorrow and guilt, perhaps, but no darkness.

“Galaeron, I’m sorry,” Takari said, hardly able to look him in the eye. “I didn’t mean to leave my post, but it was already gone when I went around the tree, so when I heard the Cold Hand trying to attack…”

“It’s all right”

“I thought I should go help,” she continued. “It was probably just the curse….”

“Whatever it was, Takari, you did the right thing,” Galaeron said, taking her hands. He didn’t know what had happened with Kuhl’s sword and wasn’t sure he ever wanted to, but he could see by the clearness in her eyes that she had not been taken by her shadow. “I’m just happy you’re still here.”

Takari smiled that carefree cupid’s bow smile that he remembered from all those years on the Desert Border South.

Galaeron could not resist. He kissed her as hard as Vala had kissed him, though this time the crowd’s astonishment took the form of a shocked murmur rather than a hearty laugh. It didn’t matter to Galaeron. He loved Takari and Vala both, and he had made so many mistakes so much worse on the way to saving Evereska that he really didn’t care what they thought. He would not curb his feelings to please anyone—he had learned that much at least.

“Ahem,” said Lord Duirsar’s familiar voice. “If I might intrude.”

Galaeron and Takari parted—reluctantly—and he bowed to the elf lord.

“Thank you. Now that you seem to be feeling better—” Duirsar drew a nervous chuckle from the assembly by turning to them and arching one of his gray eyebrows—”it occurs to me that with the death of Kiinyon Colbathin, Evereska has need of a new Master of the Defenses.”

“Galaeron would make a fine commander,” said Laeral Silverhand. “He has already saved the city once.”

“Hear, hear!” cried Dexon, limping up behind Keya on his still-withered leg. “I can tell you, your young cubs are already recounting the tales of how he lured the phaerimm to their deaths.”

As the Vaasan spoke, Keya, Zharilee, and the other commanders of the elven companies were kneeling on the cobblestones. They drew their swords and turned the tips toward Galaeron, then touched them to the ground in a gesture of loyalty. Even the high mage from Evermeet, the one whom Galaeron had joined in repairing the last strands of the mythal, dropped to a knee and inclined his head.

It did not escape Galaeron’s notice, however, that it was only the humans who were actually voicing their approval. With the exception of Takari and his sister Keya, the elves were reluctant to meet his eyes, and many of them seemed unable to keep their gazes from straying toward the shadow-striped sky.

“What say you, Galaeron?” Lord Duirsar laid a hand on Galaeron’s shoulder. “Will you lead the defenders of Evereska—what few of us remain?”

“Milord, I don’t know what to say.”

Instead of kneeling to accept the appointment, Galaeron turned and looked into the eyes of the high mage. There he did not find even the uncertainty and apprehension that filled the eyes of the others—only revulsion, fear, and mistrust. Of all the elves there in the courtyard, the high mage had felt the touch of Galaeron’s shadow most clearly, and it was in his eyes that Galaeron could read his future in Evereska. He inclined his head to the mage not in bitterness or anger, but acknowledgement and acceptance, then turned back to Lord Duirsar.

“Lord Duirsar, I will, of course, serve Evereska until we have seen the last of the phaerimm and their mind-slaves driven from the Shaeradim.”

He glanced in Takari’s direction and allowed his glance to linger there until he saw realization dawn in her eyes, then he turned to face Vala.

“But I have given my word to Vala that I would see the darkswords we have borrowed returned safely to their families in Vaasa.”

Duirsar’s jaw dropped, and a murmur of disbelief rustled through the assembly. No elf dared refuse Lord Duirsar—at least no elf who was a citizen of Evereska.

“Galaeron!” Vala hissed. “There’s no need—”

“I am an elf,” Galaeron cut her off. His eyes darted toward the high mage. “I keep my promises.”

Even Vala could not miss the gratitude and relief in the high mage’s expression.

“I hope you understand, milord,” Vala said. “It is a matter of some importance to my people that the weapons be returned by the one who borrowed them.”

Taken aback though he was by Galaeron’s refusal, Lord Duirsar was nevertheless wise enough to recognize a graceful out when it was offered. He nodded courteously and smiled.

“It was rude of me not to think of that. I’m quite certain we’ll be able to find someone else.” He paused for a moment then turned to Keya and said, “And what of you, young Lady Nihmedu? Will we be needing to find a new commander for your company as well?”

Dexon limped forward, as completely oblivious to the proper etiquette as only a Vaasan could be, and growled, “With your permission, Milord, we’ll be making our home here—as long as you can stomach me, that is.”

Lord Duirsar turned to Vala and asked, “Would that be agreeable to the Granite Tower?”

“He’s free to do as he pleases,” Vala said. She reached out and pinched Dexon’s swarthy cheek. “As long as he gives the baby a Vaasan name.”

“At least the first one,” Keya promised.

“Very well, then,” Duirsar said, turning to Dexon. Then it would be our honor to ‘stomach you* for the rest of your life, my friend.”

Dexon grinned and engulfed Lord Duirsar in a bear hug.

While the elf lord endeavored to extract himself, Vala turned to Takari and said, “And you’re free to do as you please, too.”

Takari frowned. “Free?” she asked. “Of course I’m free. I’m Sy’Tel’Quess.”

“Let me put this another way,” Vala said. “As the bearer of Kuhl’s child and his darksword, you have a home with us in Vaasa.”

“With you?” Takari said, She smiled broadly and came over to stand with Vala and Galaeron. “We’re all going to Vaasa to live in the Granite Tower… together?”

“If you like, yes.”

Vala glanced at Galaeron as though looking for rescue, but of course he only smiled and used fingertalk to thank her. She went pale, but quickly collected herself and took Takari by the arm.

“We have some very interesting customs in Vaasa,” Vala said, narrowing her eyes at Galaeron. “Our men sleep in the snow.”

______________EPILOGUE

No sooner had Shade Enclave stopped wobbling than the summons came to Malygris, the Blue Suzerain of Anauroch. Though it took a mighty act of will to resist the call of the Most High, the dracolich lingered atop his perch, watching to see if the thread of shadow that ran between the enclave and the dark lake beneath would dissolve, or if the capsized mountain would rise to its former place high in the sky. When neither happened, Malygris deigned to answer. Lifting his boneless magnificence off the peak where he’d been resting, he flew into the city.

Before entering the cave where the Most High always met him, Malygris took a turn over the enclave and found that the magnificent metropolis had degenerated overnight into a drab city of

hovels and tenements. The Palace Most High, whose grandeur had awed even him, was in the light of Anauroch’s sun little more than a barren field, with a freestanding arch to mark the entrance and a handful of stairwells leading down into the ground.

When Malygris finally entered the Cave Gate, he found Telamont Tanthul waiting with a pile of freshly decapitated heads large enough to hold a dragon. The stench was awful, but that would change with a decade of curing. Though he tried not to show it, Malygris was impressed. The next time the accursed Cult of the Dragon priests came to his lair with some errand, he would enjoy watching their faces when they looked upon his new nest

Malygris was so grateful that instead of forcing the Most High to come to him as usual, the dracolich landed in front of the shade. The platinum glow of Telamont’s s eyes seemed less bright, but there was another sign of his weariness.

“You were occupied, Mighty One?” Telamont asked.

“That is none of your concern.” Malygris raised his horny snout bone toward the pile of heads and asked, “You have gifts?”

The Most High nodded and waved an empty sleeve toward the heap. If he realized his confidence was being tested, he showed no sign.

The Cult of the Dragon,” said he shade.

Malygris’s jaw dropped.

“The whole cult?”

“Only the fools who knew of your bondage,” Telamont clarified.

“All? You’re sure?” Malygris asked. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. “I am free?”

Telamont inclined his head.

“Did you not tell me it was impossible to free me of the Cult?”

“It was then,” Telamont answered. “We acted when we could be certain.”

“And when your need was greatest,” Malygris said, turning toward the cave mouth. “You may deliver the heads to my lair.”

He spread his wings, but found himself unable to launch. The weight of Telamont’s will pressed down on him so hard he thought it might crush one of his minor wing bones, and he found himself speaking thoughts he had intended to keep private.

“I have seen the true face of Shade, and I am no longer awed.”

Malygris tried to stop there, but Telamont’s s will forced him to continue, “The Chosen mammals are peeling your blankets from the High Ice, and the strength of the other warmblood realms will soon return. It will not be long, I think, before your city crashes into the lake or flees back into the shadow.”

“You are mistaken, my friend, but I will not hold it against you.”

Telamont pointed at the floor by his feet, and Malygris found himself clattering over to lay his magnificent chin on the cold stone. He thought instantly of the amulet the cult priests used to control him, but it was not hanging from the Most High’s neck. Telamont Tanthul had his own magic.

“Shade is here to stay.”

“Shade is here to stay,” Malygris found himself repeating.

“We have many enemies, but we are accustomed to enemies.”

“We have many enemies—” Malygris tried to resist saying “we,” but the will of the Most High was as heavy as all of his coin piles together—”but we are accustomed to enemies.”